


Something Sunnier

by ishka



Category: Free!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishka/pseuds/ishka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kisumi doesn't know why Makoto's there, but he knows why he wants him to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Sunnier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [popnographic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/popnographic/gifts).



> idk dudes i felt like writing some good ol' fashioned ANGST and i dedicate to the boo, since no one angsts with me like she does ♥
> 
> mostly a continuation of [this](http://iskabee.tumblr.com/post/140610118660/makokisu-and-8-d).

Makoto eats everything that he’s given except the crinkle-cut carrots that he leaves in a pile at the bottom of the bowl. He doesn’t excuse it, doesn’t explain it. Simply nudges the dish forward in silent yielding and sits quietly with his hands in his lap after that.

Kisumi has a couch, but it’s a two-seater and it’s half-fossilized by definition of its age and the fact that it feels like the cushions are made of uneven ugly floral-stamped sheetrock. Every time he looks at it he runs his tongue over his teeth so hard to beat back a flare of rage that he sometimes makes himself bleed. So he opts to eat on the floor at his coffee table that could really use a sanding and re-stain. It’s also where he was sitting when Makoto called him and asked for a ride from the airport in what had to have been a tone of voice anyone else might’ve saved for a remorseful murder confession.

He doesn’t have a lot by way of explanation for why he agreed to do it. He certainly didn’t have Makoto’s number and answered the unknown caller on a whim as he tends to do. Makoto could’ve cold-dialed anyone in Tokyo and would’ve ended up with a stranger he knew just as well as he knows Kisumi dumping him off at a motel, and even would’ve avoided the awkward feeling of being old friends with so much to catch up on that there’s no one good place to start. Kisumi could’ve even called a cab and paid the fare for him in lieu of going to get him.

But he shrugged to himself and said he’d be about an hour out, due to traffic and all. That’s the sort of karma Makoto puts into the world, he figures. Anyone he’s come across would probably help him if he dared to ask.

Curious then that considering all of the people Kisumi can think of that would do anything for Makoto, that he’s the one picking a near-stranger up from the airport to take him to exactly nowhere as long as it’s just _away_ from wherever Makoto came from.

“Want me to wrap up those carrots for later?” Kisumi jests, chin resting on his hand.

Makoto blinks out of whatever dimension his mind’s fallen into and takes a sharp breath through his nose as he refocuses. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you liked the food,” Kisumi concedes.

“It was very good, thank you.” He looks down at the bowl as he speaks. “Oh... I don’t like carrots.”

Kisumi snorts. “I figured that out.”

Makoto flushes just a slight shade of pink at his ears, Kisumi notices because he’s trying to take in all of this adult before him, who was only just a (large) gangly teenager last time they spoke in person. “Sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention. That’s really rude of me.”

Kisumi smiles to put him at ease. “I _guess_ I forgive you,” he says lightly, standing to pick up their dishes. He doesn’t figure Makoto’s in a mood to joke, so leaves him be to clean up and think about how best to set him up for the night. He has a couch and a floor and his own bed, and maybe it’d be polite to offer the bed while he takes the floor with a few blankets put down. He’s definitely not taking that couch, and wouldn’t have Makoto take it either.

“Um, Kisumi,” Makoto says from behind him.

Kisumi turns with the same smile on his lips as before that falls off as he takes in Makoto standing at the foot of the kitchen with his suitcase and jacket on. “Thanks for the food but I really should stay somewhere else.”

“Hey,” Kisumi protests. “It isn’t necessary. I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Makoto responds. “I mind. I didn’t come here to take advantage of you.”

Kisumi’s good at thinking quickly on his feet, and there are approximately ten different warning sirens blaring in his head that are telling him not to let Makoto go and be by himself. And a few others bleating quieter telling him that _he_ shouldn’t be alone either. But he can’t force Makoto to stay. So he’ll just have to guilt Makoto _harder_ than he already did into staying.

“Actually, you have great timing,” Kisumi recovers. “Because if you look around this place, you’ll see that it is a _dump_ that unfortunately I was suckered into buying, so I’m stuck with it.”

Makoto shifts his weight from foot to foot, lets his eyes dart around the dark kitchen for just a moment.

“See? So I’ve been planning a facelift, you know? Know how much quicker it would all go with a little help? A little paint, maybe some new furniture, patch up the corners. Haven’t been too inspired to tackle it alone, to be honest.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Makoto sighs.

“Oh, good, then we don’t have to play coy. So you’ll still stay and help? It’s a long weekend anyway.”

He averts his gaze in the direction of the shoes at the door and chews at the corner of his lip.

Kisumi folds his arms across his chest and delivers his last-ditch effort. It was something he wanted to say a lifetime ago in middle school, but couldn’t bring himself to try and make Makoto choose between Kisumi and Haru. Mostly because Kisumi already knew what the answer would be, and it was hard enough to know that inherently, much less have to hear it. Kisumi’s had a lot of best friends, but he’s never been anyone’s best friend.

“We’re friends, right?” he smiles, pushing down the desperation that so stubbornly wants to latch onto the question he hopes with everything he has is rhetorical.

Makoto hesitates for another moment before shrugging his coat back off, and Kisumi’s chest is warm and tight for the first time in so long that it startles him.

* * *

 

“Well, blue is what I have now and it’s sort of depressing,” Kisumi mumbles to the sales associate as he faces a wall of paint chips. “I was thinking something... sunnier.” He picks off a sample of a pretty peach.

“The _entire_ house?” the associate asks not without an edge of judgement.

“Oh, probably not. Like a wall.” He faces Makoto. “Maybe two. What do you think, babe?”

Makoto pulls his mouth into a line so hard his lips probably fuse, and he doesn’t answer.

“This sort of thing is just _not_ for him,” Kisumi says in a loud whisper with a wink to the associate, who is looking like they’d be anywhere else than helping him pick out a color for an accent wall. That’s why he’s fucking with them, of course. “You know the type that think there’s _no_ difference between eggshell, seashell, and titanium? _Yeah_.”

“Sure,” the associate agrees lamely. “So you like this?”

Kisumi sweeps his eyes up and down the lighter colors a final time. “I’ll need enough for two walls. And I’ll take the seashell for the rest, so-” He pauses and counts up the walls in his head he’s planning on re-painting. “Six walls and a very short hallway.”

“We’ll get it mixed.”

“And _we’ll_ find supplies,” Kisumi responds, pushing the empty cart down the row of rollers with a wave. Makoto walks behind him without a word as he moves primer, pans, tape, rollers, and rods into the cart. He replaces the silence with a tuneless hum.

“What would you say the kitchen needs?” Kisumi asks idly.

“It was fine.”

“It’s so _old_ though…” He glances down the aisle with a display of faucets and sinks. “You know those faucets on a retractable hose-thing? Is there anything sexier in a modern home?”

“We should just start with what can be tackled in a weekend,” Makoto suggests.

Kisumi sighs and turns back to the painting supplies. “You’re regrettably right. Well there’s always another time… let’s stick with painting. Am I missing anything?”

“Plastic?” Makoto says, pointing to the bottom shelf. “For the floor.”

“Oh, duh. This is why I need you.” Kisumi looks over the cart and double checks the price tag on the plastic. “Well shit this is going to cost me. We’ll have to wait for another paycheck for anything else anyway. I think I went in over my head.”

Makoto looks over the cart now as well and turns to the other side of the aisle to look at small brushes. He picks out a small one and tosses it into the cart. “Corners.”

“Okay, I’m cutting it off there,” Kisumi whines. “Let’s get the paint.”

He checks out and frowns when Makoto throws a candy bar onto everything with the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth; some sort of retribution for the fruity newlywed couple routine, Kisumi accepts. And hell if Makoto isn’t making Kisumi want to drag out that façade for just a little bit longer with a look like that. Bright and warm, just for Kisumi. Light in his eyes fits Makoto best, Kisumi decided when they were kids. He missed it back then when they went their separate ways and he misses it now that he realizes it’s been gone until this moment. Just a small spark is all he gets too before it’s gone again, and Kisumi drives them back home in more deafening silence.

Silence, silence, silence as he sets up. Shoves the furniture out of the way, washes the walls, gets the plastic down and tapes off the edges. Makoto works on the other side, mirroring his steps. Kisumi lights the fuse to a few inane conversations that Makoto stomps out with uncharacteristic hums and shrugs.

He starts with the white to save the nice color for last or else he won’t have anything to look forward to. It is satisfying to watch the slate blue disappear after all these years of living with it. Well, existing with it. _Living_ with it implies _vivacity_.

“Was it blue when you moved in?” Makoto asks out of nowhere halfway through the second wall.

“It was not,” Kisumi answers, and considers leaving it there. But if Makoto isn’t bending, maybe he’ll ease up if Kisumi does. “My ex wanted it, so I agreed. Also wanted the apartment, I agreed. Suckered, as I said.”

“I see.”

“I really do hate it though.”

“The apartment or the color?”

Kisumi shrugs. “Both. Terrible location, no market value at all. And scientific fact that a blue room can negatively influence a mood, you know. I’ve been meaning to paint over it for awhile. Ever since they left, anyway… never did.”

“Maybe it was because of the blue.”

Kisumi laughs a beat, but Makoto isn’t smiling as if it were a joke. “Or I’m lazy and needed an excuse to get moving on it. I wasn’t _just_ trying to keep an eye on you. Mostly, but not exclusively.”

Makoto sets his roller to rest on the pan. “...Why are you doing this?” he asks hesitantly.

He frowns, mouth pulled down by some funny weight in his stomach. “I said we’re friends, didn’t I? Time alone doesn’t change that, I hope.”

Kisumi’s good at thinking quickly on his feet, but when Makoto suddenly sits down next to the paint pan in something one notch short of a collapse and holds his head in his hands and falls silent again, all he thinks to do is sit down with him and stare into what might as well be a mirror.

* * *

 

It turns out really nice, in Kisumi’s opinion. There’s the matter of the living room furniture to replace, but the brightened walls are a visual breath of fresh air. It’s a lot less like a dungeon, and the ever golden-green Makoto sprawled on his faded pastel floral two-seater centered in front of the pillowy peach wall looks a lot like a staged photograph with the way the color composition and soft light from the window is all made up of sunbeams. He nearly likes the couch for the first time. Nearly.

“The floor would be be-tter,” Kisumi singsongs at him as he walks by the tableau after his first day back at work since the weekend’s ended. Makoto probably doesn’t want to know how nice Kisumi finds the sight he’s putting on.

He loosens his tie and stops by the still-dredgy kitchen for a drink before checking in on his squatter. He still doesn’t know what to do with him- more specifically, what to ask or how to help- but came up with a dinner out if Makoto could stand it as thanks for his help with the painting. And an ulterior way to continue to try and earn his favor. His confidence. See his spark again, and maybe have the audacity to wish for a nice time with someone other than himself, as good as he is at self-entertainment. After the other day, Kisumi’s certain now Makoto could use a bit of company too, not that they’ve spoken a word of it since he shut down and out for a spell.

“It’s not that bad,” Makoto says, eyes closed.

Kisumi leans on the arm of the couch at Makoto’s feet. “You’re taking my bed tonight.”

“I’m not. Are we getting things for your kitchen this weekend?”

“Hmm,” he sighs. “Maybe later. The painting was difficult enough. As for tonight, I was _actually_ thinking-”

“Then I should probably leave today.”

“-Oh,” Kisumi breathes like it was knocked out of him. “I uh, okay.”

He stares after Makoto who’s rolled to a stand and crossed the room to his suitcase, opening the top and getting the contents back into an organized fit. If he walks out, he’s gone, Kisumi thinks. There was already nearly a decade between then and now, a ton of time for them to both end up alone like this, and while there’s hardly been any time spent getting to know him all over again at a whopping three days, Kisumi feels cold at his back thinking of never seeing him again.

He didn’t know in high school the last time they spoke would be the last time they’d talk while life still wasn’t so bad. He’d hate to be wise enough now to know it’s the last time for a second time and not do anything to stop it. Kisumi is Makoto’s childhood friend too, even if Makoto never would’ve chosen him over Haru.

He agreed to pick Makoto up for a reason. He answered that unknown number- and has always answered them- because at least it’s someone to talk to.

“Makoto, wait,” he starts, speaking louder over the zip of Makoto’s luggage. “I wanted to do dinner.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Makoto dismisses. “No need.”

“I _want_ to,” Kisumi reiterates. “Please?”

“I need to check in before eight,” Makoto reveals, smiling apologetically. “Maybe some other time?”

“You booked a room already?” Kisumi asks, getting back to his feet. He knows he isn’t hiding the hurt on his face by the way Makoto is avoiding looking at him head on, and he doesn’t want to hide it anyway. Makoto doesn’t owe him a smile and Kisumi doesn’t expect him to be miraculously okay after a few days of company, but this is so cold and shuttered of Makoto that it makes his eyes sting and his core drop hollowly. “Why?”

Makoto’s shoulders slump halfway to the door, and if this polite front of his took physical form it would’ve fallen off of Makoto then like a robe crumpling to the floor, and he looks somewhere over Kisumi’s right shoulder. “What do you want from me, Kisumi?”

“ _Dinner_ ,” Kisumi repeats.

“I helped with the painting. You’re not working on the kitchen. Call me when you are and I’ll come back.”

“No you won’t,” Kisumi protests. “You won’t come back.”

“What does it _matter_ to you?” Makoto snaps, and a light Kisumi _doesn’t_ like finds his eyes. He doesn’t function well when anger is directed at him, it makes his usual lilt and playfulness careen over a cliff into nothing and leaves him only with a stuttering anxiety that he can’t control. “I’m a stranger who needed a ride, I paid you back for that ride. That’s it, that’s _all_ I am. Let me _leave_.”

“We’re- You’re my friend,” Kisumi stammers. “That’s not _all_ -”

“ _Stop_ it. Stop saying that and guilting me into staying so you can _keep an eye_ on me for your own peace of mind!”

“I-I’m _not-_ I want you around-” he stutters over his spiking pulse. If the average anyone can get to him with anger, then surely _Makoto’s_ anger is enough to make him nauseous, make his throat close around his words until they crack.

“What about this isn’t just for you to feel like some sort of savior?” Makoto asks immediately calmer and back in control, but no less sharply.

“ _I_ need someone!” Kisumi cries. “I need someone and I latched onto you because this is all there is for me and we’ve always been _friends_ and we clearly don’t have our own right now. I really mean it. I need someone who says something other than _thanks for shopping at Okashi grocery_ or _what side dish would you like with that?_ and I thought you could. Or would, rather, because you’re _Makoto_ ,” he cracks. “And no matter what you _help_ people and I need you even though it’s really shitty and selfish of me to ask of you now but you showed up when I... needed someone.”

Makoto’s anger gives out to a blank stare, the grip on the handle of his suitcase no less viced and just that small detail alone makes Kisumi give up. “...It’s not your problem. I get it.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Makoto responds softly. “But I can’t help you.” It’s not a _I don’t want to_ type of response, but a sad and despondent _I’m literally unable to._

Kisumi laughs high and dry, and spreads his arms out, twisting at his torso to demonstrate the room. “You already did. But you’re right, I can’t keep you here. Thanks for everything.”

His legs aren’t in the business up holding him up anymore as the adrenaline drains from him, and he turns to collapse onto his couch, facing the back. It’s just as terrible as it’s always been. When he bought it for his ex who demanded it of him he disliked its clashing pattern, when he found his ex fucking someone else on it it was never comfortable again, and now that it smells like Makoto he hates it so much he may as well drag it out to the dumpster as soon as he gets some energy back to do so. He toys with picking up a pack of smokes for old time’s sake and losing a lit one between the cushions.

Kisumi flinches when his front door opens, holds his breath when it doesn’t immediately close, and clenches his jaw down so hard it aches when it latches shut again and footsteps and a rattling suitcase echo outside and away down the landing.

* * *

 

The worst feeling thing about it is how easily Kisumi falls back into his routine. It was only three days, after all. Not long enough to really make him commit to anything new. He could almost say it never happened if not for the paint to remind him. He tells himself it was just a weird weekend with someone who isn’t who they used to be. Makoto is just as much a stranger to Kisumi as he was before he made the _mistake_ of picking him up and proceeding to lose it in front of him.

On the weekend he forces himself back to the department store to pick up a new sink and faucet. With the retractable hose. A splurge maybe, but one he awards himself for surviving an exemplary shitty week. He adds a hand sander, sheets, a tack cloth, and stain for the table. He may as well finish what he’s meant to do for over a year now that it’s started. Not like he’s going anywhere any time soon.

The sink proves a pain in the goddamned ass even though it’s over and done with after only a few hours, and the table is a cathartic project by contrast that takes him the rest of the weekend to sand evenly and thoroughly and lay four coats of stain over.

It turns out all right.

Kisumi props his door open with a doorstop and walks over to his couch, grabbing it by the arm and shoving it in short stutters towards the now dark outside. Luckily it’s a landing only elevated by three stairs, and the dumpster is across the flat lot.

The armrest gets caught on the doorjamb just as Kisumi thinks that he’s in the clear to shove the bane of his existence clean out. He lifts it to try and get a better angle, gets it stuck again and curses under his breath. Frustrated now, he pulls it back down to try and roll it and see if that’ll do it, but his hands are starting to sweat and even with the fabric, he’s losing his grip. He shouldn’t be surprised- and isn’t, because this couch is out to fucking get him- when he manages to pin his fingers between the doorjamb and the boniest, barest part of the couch arm, but he yelps in pain just the same.

“Fu- _uck_!” he groans, giving a yank to his arm while his free hand supports what he can of the couch. With a grunt and a push upwards with all of the might he can muster, he’s able to free his hand and stumble back. The couch falls back into place where it’s stuck and he stomps angrily to his kitchen to get his throbbing fingertips under cold water until they throb slightly less. He pulls the retractable hose down into the basin just to use it, shutting the water off and letting it go to watch it zip back up after a few minutes.

He nearly walks away from his wide open door and wedged couch and goes straight to bed, energy and motivation to deal with the entire thing dwindling. Except his door is closed and his couch is back in its place, and Kisumi sees Makoto half-obscured by the dark room shifting it back flat to the peachy wall just in time to beat down a screech of horror. Makoto looks up to acknowledge him and sits down.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’ll live,” Kisumi answers flatly.

“I’m sorry to just show up. I meant to call but I forgot to pack a phone charger.”

“Why are you here?”

Makoto looks away. “I wanted to talk.”

Kisumi swallows dry but stays standing. “Okay.”

He fidgets for another few moments, eyes peering up to the door as if he’s considering standing and leaving again without saying anything else. Finally he sighs loudly, and looks back down to the floor. “One day… I woke up and I was alone. I didn’t realize it was happening when my phone calls were skipped and downgraded to texts, and I didn’t realize it was happening when the usual novel updates from everyone devolved into one-worded responses. My parents moved away. My siblings went to university. Everyone since high school left. One by one, until I only really heard from Haru. Maybe that was fine.”

Kisumi approaches him cautiously, not that he has a reason to, and sits on the other end of the couch sensing Makoto isn’t done yet.

“But then he was gone too. Stopped responding as often. Skips my calls occasionally. He’s there but… not how I needed him. Or wanted. So I figured, if everyone else found something they needed by leaving, maybe I could too… even if I knew I was just leaving because the thought of waking up there alone another day...” he trails off. “Anyway, I’m sorry Kisumi. I wish I could be more but I’m not. I never was. I’m sorry if I made you think I was, or presented myself differently and tricked you but I can’t help you. Without all of them I’m… just me. And you don’t need me.”

Kisumi inhales through his nose to stay quiet and attempt to calm his heartbeat. He scoots slightly closer until their legs touch, and what little bitterness he was harboring thaws out and dissipates. The back of Makoto’s hand is limp and unresponsive when he takes it with his uninjured one, and Makoto doesn’t bother with any sort of reassuring movement in return either. “Don’t you know how much I used to wish I could get you alone for five _seconds_?”

Makoto laughs humorlessly. “Be careful what you wish for.”

He sighs, not up to the task of keeping up the banter. “...I need a friend, Makoto. That’s all. And we already _are_ friends and _have_ been for a long time because I liked you how you were then and I like you as I get to know you now, so you’re not _just_ you. You’re _Makoto_ , and I’m lucky _and_ happy that you’re here.”

Makoto looks over to their hands and slowly turns his over so their palms are flush and their fingers lace. He still won’t squeeze, so Kisumi does it enough so it can be felt.

“Kisumi,” Makoto nearly whispers, as if he’s fighting with the silences that plagued him the weekend prior just to stay audible. Kisumi turns to see him looking like he’s ready to be buried alive and be done with feeling this way. Kisumi’s never been anyone’s best friend, so he can’t imagine what it feels like to have that one day and then not have it the next. He especially can’t imagine it for someone like Makoto who maybe has always risked a bit too much of his self-worth on anyone but himself, even when they were kids.

Makoto kisses him first as if it’s the same as running across the room to flip the lights on and chase the shadows out, and if it makes him feel better then who is Kisumi to request they take their time? Makoto barely squeezes his hand back, and uses his other to only ghost along the side of Kisumi’s face before dropping it. He’s not ready to really touch Kisumi or reciprocate his affections on the same level as Kisumi would like to give them, and that’s fine. Kisumi keeps himself reserved, and only lingers to nibble at Makoto’s bottom lip for just long enough to make sure Makoto knows he wanted that.

“Um,” Makoto clears his throat and forces himself to hold eye contact, even though it’s turning him red all the way beneath his collar to do so. “I wanted to keep the couch.”

Kisumi smiles and leans forward to rest his forehead on Makoto’s shoulder, saving them both a spell of overheating if he’s honest with himself. “I can live with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> [here's where the rest of my dumb crap is](http://iskabee.tumblr.com)


End file.
